The sounds of the city wafted in as we sat down to eat. Our dinner was simple and bright, full of big, filling flavors. But it was also quiet, with easy banter about our usual weekend activities. Franny liked to catch up on reading and walk around Prospect Park; I tended to run and clean, and watch too much baseball. It was stuff that we did on our own, stuff that suddenly seemed a lot more appealing when imagining doing it with someone else. She told me about the baby shower she’d been dragged into planning with her mom, the endless messages she’d been getting from her for weeks. I gave her the rundown on my Seattle trip and the early talks of maybe opening a San Diego office too.

Later, as I did the dishes, Franny tucked herself back into that corner of the couch, her laptop open and teetering precariously on the edge of the sofa arm as she crafted a reply to Anna’s latest email. I liked seeing her like this, her guard down, relaxed. It felt natural, like we did this every weekend. What if we did this every weekend? I asked myself. What if sometimes I came out to Brooklyn, or she brought her stuff into the city and we walked along the High Line or sat by the fountain at Lincoln Center and watched the people heading into the opera. I hadn’t let myself wonder what it might look like to share the slow moments of my life with someone else again. But they felt immediately brighter imagining Franny there with me.

When I finished, it was inky black outside; the night had somehow snuck up on us, surprised us with darkness. Not that I had been paying attention to anything other than Franny today. I shuffled over to the couch, sitting much closer to her than I had last night. She snapped her laptop shut and placed it on the floor, running a hand down my thigh. “Before you even suggest that it’s time for you to go, I want you to know that I’d love for you to stay. Here. And not just because I want to force you to watch more eighties movies with me.”

“You mean we’re not watching Sixteen Candles?” I placed a chaste kiss on the edge of her neck, where it sloped up to meet her chin.

“I mean, that movie is wildly problematic by today’s standards, so hell, no. And I don’t feel like watching Grease, as shameful as it is that you haven’t seen it.”

“What should we do, then?”

Franny turned to face me, placing her hands flat on my chest. “I have a long list of ideas, if you’re open to hearing them.”